Chapter 1My Husband Killed Me Ninety-Nine Times

Declan Martin, to save his terminally ill darling, made a deal with a mysterious system. The terms of the deal were brutal: he had to kill me, Nina Thorne, ninety-nine times, by various means, so his beloved could extend her life.

The first time, it was in our marital home. He strangled me with his own hands.

The twelfth time, we were hiking, and he deliberately orchestrated an accident, pushing me off a mountain. I fell to my death.

He hired people to abduct me, then burned me alive. That was the thirty-sixth time.

And the ninety-ninth time, I chose to end my own life. This time, I never woke up again.

His darling finally recovered, but he didn't go to see her. He knelt beside my cold corpse like a madman, hoarsely begging me to come back.

I really wanted to ask him, isn't your beloved perfectly fine now? Why are you unhappy instead?

* * *

Declan Martin’ ninety-eighth kill was to slit my wrists and then hold me down in a bathtub, drowning me alive.

When I woke up this time, my face was blank. I gripped the edge of the tub, slowly pulling myself to my feet. Blood still swirled down the drain in the mirror. My skin was terrifyingly pale, only my eyes still holding a flicker of life.

Declan had said the system indicated Clara’s heart needed a strong surge of life force. So, as he held the razor blade to my veins, his expression was devoid of emotion, intent only on quickly dispatching me, this nuisance. His gaze didn't even linger on my face.

I pulled the bathtub plug and watched the blood drain away. Then I picked up the showerhead, rinsing my body, as if cleaning a crime scene I wasn't involved in. My life was merely a line item on Clara’s life-extension ledger, to be crossed out and rewritten at any time, until the damned ninety-nine deaths were complete.

The system was as thoughtful as ever; upon rebirth, my wrist bore no trace of the wound. But the memories of my deaths became increasingly vivid in my mind.

I walked out of the bathroom, put on clean clothes. Outside, dawn was breaking. A new day had begun, and so had my death countdown. The ninety-ninth time, what method would it be? A car crash? A fall from a building? Or something more novel? I was a little curious, a little numb. After all, repeating something ninety-eight times, no matter how painful, became a habit.

My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was a message from Declan.

[Clara wants to go for a walk today. Get ready to accompany her to West Ridge Park.]

His tone was like instructing a servant. When my sacrifice wasn't needed, he didn't treat me like a wife either.

I replied with a single word: [Okay.]

Then I tossed the phone back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart was riddled with a dense ache. I suddenly yearned to know, when the ninety-ninth time arrived, would I truly be free?